


hands down, i'm too proud for love.

by howkylocanyougo



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Body Horror, Body Worship, Bottom Kylo Ren, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Courtship, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Rating for later chapters, Sort Of, Top Armitage Hux, Touch Aversion, Touch-Starved, Unrequited Love, no beta we die like men, slower burn than anticipated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-26 00:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12047559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howkylocanyougo/pseuds/howkylocanyougo
Summary: ben solo was a soft boy, ever afraid of the genetic possibility of the disease that had claimed his grandmother. when ben solo died, the man who took his place cast those fears aside; after destroying all ties with anyone he could have loved, scraping himself down to the bone and hollowing himself out, what heart could he possibly still possess that might stir for another?and yet now, two years after being stationed aboard the finalizer, kylo ren wakes to find he cannot breathe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient coughs up flowers or flower petals. The only cure is to have that love reciprocated, or to somehow wipe away all one’s memories of their beloved person. The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with the petals.”

Gloved fingers. Dark curls.

Ordinarily, such a combination would not garner so much as a stray thought.  _Now_ , however? Now, it evokes the strangest flicker of --

...well. No, he won't call it  _desire._ That's ridiculous. But it does conjure the General in his mind, a fact which is troubling enough in and of itself. That his thoughts have strayed to his co-commander more often as of late is not something he can deny, and always at the strangest of times. During his rounds, or mid-fight with a sim program, or...well, or  _now_ , with his own fingers pulling the hair from the nape of his neck, gathering the tumbling masses and beginning to wrangle them into order. Deft fingers weave slim braids, an action that is more muscle memory than thought at this point. With the rest brushed back, tidied, the braids help to hold it all in place, and he shakes his head just a little to ensure security -- it would not do for his hair to tumble into his eyes under his helmet. 

But that this routine is so familiar serves only to leave his mind free to contemplate this burgeoning problem. For two years, he and the General have worked quite closely together. In the beginning, this had been a minefield, fraught with difficulties, not the least of which had been his own self-imposed silence. What need had their been to speak? For years after the massacre at Luke Skywalker's Temple, he had been all but sequestered, in training, surrounded only by other Force Users. Words, then, had seemed superfluous. The Knights had never needed to hear his voice to understand him; neither had his Master. 

Hux, however -- Hux was Force Null, insofar as Ren himself could tell. In those first few months, there had been no communication between them that had not occurred via terse datapad messages. It had not been hard to parse the fact that Hux had come to believe him completely mute, a misconception Ren had been more than happy to allow him to maintain. 

That illusion had broken abruptly, one day, when, after the intolerable man had -- what  _had_ he done? Ren can hardly remember now, an insignificant slight that he does not recall half so well as the  _explosion_ that had followed the revelation that Ren could  _speak_ , after he had, in a cat's tongue rasp half-masked by the vocoder, verbally demanded explanation for what the man thought he was doing.

Hux, livid, had demanded he leave his office that moment, color high in his pale cheeks -- whether fury, outrage, or embarrassment at having been duped for so long, or some combination thereof that had caused the flush, Ren remembers it clearly as the first instant in which he had truly seen the other as  _alive_. Walking the decks of the  _Finalizer_ , he had always seemed a cold, distant thing, untouchable,  _unpalatable_ , passionless and stale. But that icy exterior had fractured, just for a moment, one gloved hand cracking down against his desk with a resounding, sharp  _thwack_ that he can recall even now, and Ren had realized that there existed a fire at his core, a deep-seated passion held at bay only by a lifetime of drilled-in discipline.

It was, as well, perhaps the first moment in which Ren had felt something close to respect for the man.

But that does not explain...this. Two years in, he would not call them close, but there is, he does not feel mistaken in assuming, a mutual acknowledgement of the necessity of the other. Though Hux is doubtful of the usefulness of the Force, and Ren is disdainful of the touted stormtrooper program, they have fallen into a rhythm -- a give and take, ever ceding and regaining ground in their vying to be valued in the eyes of the Supreme Leader. He is not ignorant of the fact that his Master plays them against one another; no doubt that had been part of his reasoning in stationing them together, sharing a ship. He always has encouraged the sort of conflict that the First Order itself forbids; these spats between commanding officers do not provide a good example for the officers, whom have been impressed with the importance of avoiding in-fighting. Perhaps it is a test, meant to breed in him the resilience to succeed even in the face of staunch opposition from those who should be considered allies; or perhaps a lesson in  _patience_ , a virtue he knows himself to be woefully lacking in. Perhaps they are supposed to learn to work together harmoniously.

He has his doubts. But whatever the Supreme Leader's reasoning, the facts remained the same: he has been working with Hux for two years aboard the First Order flagship, and all too often as of late, the man has been intruding upon his personal thoughts.

Were it just that the General himself were projecting, it would be an easy fix; more attention paid to his mental shields, and he could, with a bit of concentration, attune himself to shutting the other out. But there is no sign of that -- in fact, even when he deigns to brush the man's surface thoughts, only facts and figures greet him. He is a well-oiled machine, working towards the betterment of the Order. He is a fine example of everything a General of the First Order should be.

No -- this is a failing within Ren himself, and that makes it all the more repugnant. 

There is no room in his life for idle fancies; much less any room in his life for...for  _what?_ What does his mind hope for, in giving him these intrusive thoughts? 

A boy named Ben Solo might have called it a  _crush_ ; but that boy is long dead, and any softness in him left to burn to ashes in a ransacked Temple.  _Kylo Ren_ does not get  _crushes_. Kylo Ren is a nightmare, Kylo Ren is less a person, and more an idea. He is a rallying point, he is a war cry, he is a symbol. He is more nightmare than man. Every inch of his skin covered, layer by careful layer arranged to hide a murdered son's face from the galaxy, the last trace of a humanity he will not lay claim to.

Gloved fingers. Dark curls.

They are nothing more, and nothing less than just that, and there is nothing to be gained in entertaining adolescent fantasies to the contrary. He is above as much. He has sworn to be above as much.

His helmet locks into place, and his hair is hidden from view, and unable to be touched by any fingers, gloved or not, his own, or...

Ren steps out of his quarters, and heads for the Command Deck.


	2. Chapter 2

They will just miss each other.

That's what Ren tells himself; it will have had nothing to do with his own nearly leisurely gait, the meandering path he takes through the familiar hallways. Only that the General, ever-busy, will have had more important things to do than to wait for him. It is not the first time. It will not be the last. Some days, it is merely a statement -- a reminder that he does not come when called, that he is not a kath hound on a leash. He will not, at Hux's word, run or otherwise inconvenience himself to comply with the man's desires.

If he wishes to take his time, he will do so, and today he desires to do just that, and the earlier distraction has nothing to do with it.

Except, when he arrives, Hux's familiar shape is _still there_. It takes less than a second for the General to hone in on his presence; he would call it an act of the Force, so fast and accurate as it is, did he not know better. No -- it is the way his officers tense in response to him, the way their fingers pause for half the space of a breath. His presence always seems to evoke that -- a momentary halt, a pause in time, as if the chronometers had all gone still.

Hux, on the other hand, is  _not_ still; rounded on one heel, he has moved to intercept the wayward Knight, and Ren draws himself up at the approach. There is, to him, a perceptible shift in the pressure of the room, building like a storm front, ready to break. Hux is  _angry._ Ren is hardly two ticks late, but he is  _angry_ , which means that this -- whatever is about to happen -- is not truly about  _Ren_ and his sluggish arrival at all. His petty slight would not evoke such ire, not on its own. 

So what has gotten him in such a state?

"Ren." It's sharp, biting; ordinarily in front of the officers, there is some semblance of civility.  _Lord Ren_ is used, or no title at all -- but rarely simply  _Ren_ within earshot of subordinates. That they are of arguably equal rank is not unknown, but it is not about that -- it's about  _respect_ and presenting a unified front, even when the officers are aware they are anything but.

"General."

His own tone is level, perhaps -- cautious, though the modulation afforded by the vocoder hides that well. The use of his title seems to bring the man back to himself slightly, and all the better for it; he straightens, unballs his fists. Smooths the front of his uniform. Tips his chin up. They are not quite of eye level, a small fact that his own boots emphasizes; but today, he is not focused on that. Today, he notes that the General's ears are red, that one cheek is slightly hollowed where he has the inside of it between his teeth as if to keep him from spitting out something he would regret. His fingers, just uncurled, curl again. 

He notices, too, for the first time, that the General's carefully applied concealer cannot quite hide the freckles underneath today. Has he been sweating? Rubbing at his face? 

"You seem troubled."

It is not concern that drives the statement; never something so sentimental as that. Instead, it must merely be curiosity. Such high states of emotion are uncommon in his co-commander, and if it would cause him to behave in such an irrational manner, he feels he is perhaps entitled to know the cause.

"Stay out of my head."

Hissed, low, angry; like the General's beloved cat, he can practically see the man bristle. 

"An  _observation_ , not divined from your thoughts."

Ren would like to think his words sharp; a reprimand for the assumption, and yet it comes out...soft? Perish the thought. But whatever Hux hears, or imagines he hears, he seems to calm once more. Ren is nothing short of  _fascinated_. In truth, he has spent little time in the experimentation with and application of differing tones and word choices when speaking to his co-commander, and certainly he has never attempted to persuade him using the Force, as he has others. Privately, he does not imagine it would work, anyway; Hux has an admirably strong mind, a veritable locked fortress when it comes to things he truly wishes to hide. He projects, but nothing of consequence -- all static and white noise. 

In the early days of their acquaintance, he had found as much maddening. Now, it is nearly comforting, familiar, unchanging. A veritable life raft in a sea of minds that are ever changing, ever pressing in on him, a pressure that some days becomes overwhelming in the sheer  _number_ of them on the ship. Tens of thousands of people, tens of thousands of concerns, of fears, of nightmares, of ambitions.

But Hux's flow of thoughts never changes; even now, he is counting in his head, running calculations for the budget approval that is coming up. Whatever has upset him, it lies deeper than his surface thoughts, and is therefore out of his reach, lest he get caught prying and invoke the General's wrath. Though, it is not fear of the possible repercussions of the action that keep him at bay. Hux has been angry with him before. Hux is angry at him relatively often.

No; Ren gives a certain measure of respect to the privacy of another's mind. It brings him no pleasure to go pawing through every head he comes into contact with -- to the contrary, the experience is often unpleasant, echoing feedback loops ringing through him, nearly unanimously negative. That is not to say he has never been tempted to take just a peek...

But he will not do so. Not at present. Instead, his mild chastisement -- he will continue to think of it as such, even had it not come out that way. -- seems to have had the intended outcome, and Hux is calmed once more. Well.  _Calmer._

"We need to speak. Privately."

Interest curls through him, warm and slow, a spiral as lazy as ink through water. What could be so urgent that he would linger on the command deck to meet him, and yet not so important that he would not ping his datapad to force him to come sooner?

"Very well." A gesture for Hux to lead the way; it is not needed. Already the man is brushing past him, a bump against his shoulder that could be seen as antagonistic. He says nothing of it, despite the displeasure it sets off within him, and simply turns to fall into step alongside Hux. Never behind, even when he asks that the other lead. 

_Touch_ is a touchy topic. When he initiates, he can stand it, and context matters as well; fights do not set him off. The bump to his shoulder was not part of a fight, per se, but there had been no softness in it, either. Tolerable, if not something he would invite in the future. As a child, he had coveted touch; he had been all grabbing hands, ever-seeking comfort he rarely received. His face, buried in the crook of a neck, his arms, vice-like, as if holding on to someone else would encourage them to hold him just as tightly.

It had not worked. And before long, it had been utterly discouraged. It had not befitted the path set out for him. First that of a politician, then that of a Jedi --

No. In the former instance, touch should only ever have been used as a bargaining chip. He learned that from watching his mother, her careful motions, the brush of her fingers, the set of her shoulders. Body language was everything. How close she stood, or how far away, if her smile reached her eyes, if she showed teeth. 

In the latter, even the idle curiosities that had come with adolescence had been discouraged, and then he had left that life, and begun anew. Here, passion was embraced; but not  _sex_. Not  _intimacy_. The frustrations that occasionally came from it? Well, they only served as motivation, as a reservoir from which they might draw and use against their enemies. He is closer to his Knights than he feel he has ever been to any other living beings; their intimacy comes in the form of shared thoughts, minds brushing, a deeper connection than any most non-Force Users will ever know.

And  _yet,_ even they are held at arm's length.

Even as they round the corner, he can feel pressure of Hux's shoulder against his own; he would reach up, rub at it to rid himself of the sensation, but it would make him seem weak. He cannot explain to the other that it is not  _pain_ that causes him to do so, but a lack of familiarity with even this small breach of a vow over a decade in the making.

A room reserved for official meetings serves as the backdrop for Hux's announcement, whatever it may be. He moves inside, turning sideways to prevent contact, and slides his way around to put the table between them. If Hux notices or cares, he refrains from commenting, and any thoughts on the matter drop below his perception.

Silence stretches on; he does not break it. Hux brought him here; it is his responsibility to explain himself. 

When it is clear that Ren has no intention of questioning him, but will wait all day if need be for Hux to speak first, waiting in watchful, expectant silence, the other man finally clears his throat. After yet another pause -- and isn't this strange? Normally Hux has an excellent sense of time, having none of it to spare or waste himself. -- he finally parts his lips, and speaks.

"A...complication has arisen."

Ren says nothing, because  _that_ paltry statement  _tells_ him nothing. Hux continues, jaw set, chin lifted. 

"On Starkiller."

Ahh -- and now he has Ren's attention. His head cocks, and he finally speaks. He is not smug; this technological terror that is the General's pet project is impressive, certainly. Nothing to its scale has been attempted in known history. But he would prefer they not rely on it --  _history_ , after all, has quite well proven what a folly that might prove to be.

"Yes, your precious base. What  _sort_ of complication?"

This, at least, somewhat explains the General's behavior. His  _pride_ is at stake, and if there is anything he protects more fiercely than his perfectly arranged hair and perfectly arranged uniform, it is his  _ego._

"There is," he seems resigned, exasperated, "an unanticipated delay."

"Caused  _by_ \-- ?"

The prompting seems to finally have the General's temper flaring again.

"A beast. There is some wretched beast down there that did not show up on our scans. Drilling has woken it, and it has killed two troopers that I  _know_ of."

Surprise flickers through him, and isn't that novel? He isn't used to being  _surprised._

"Your troopers...cannot handle a singular hostile lifeform?"

"I have been informed it is, and I quote, ' _particularly large and toothy._ '"

"I see."

Silence stretches on, silence which Hux does not seem intent on breaking this time. Finally, Ren does with a quite simple: "And what are you expecting of me?"

Hux looks nearly apoplectic, but restrains himself, takes a steadying breath. Ren knows what is coming, knows  _exactly_ what Hux is asking of him. But he's going to make him say it. He's going to make him  _ask_.

"Given that traditional methods are proving ineffective," he's speaking through his teeth, utterly livid, hands clenched; no doubt, he's wishing Ren's throat were in them. "I am requesting that a detail be sent down to deal with the creature."

"So send one."

Now he _is_ smug, clear even through the vocoder, and were Hux not so well-trained, Ren imagines he might throw himself over the table to get at him for his haughty impudence. But he  _is_ controlled, maintains it even now. He takes a breath, and just like that, he is composed. His eyes, however, are hard, the gaze he fixes Ren with every bit as icy as the planet he is hollowing out for his weapon.

"A detail," he begins again, as if Ren had interrupted him, rather than himself leaving his intentions at merely an implication. "Accompanied by you or one of your Knights."

_A menial task_ , he does not say. There is no need for him to go, himself. Why should he? One of his Knights would be more than up to the job, he's certain. 

"Very well. I'll have one of my Knights prepare for departure. Is that all?"

It seems odd -- is this not something he could simply have sent a comm request about? Perhaps the havoc being wreaked by whatever is down there is greater than the General would like to let on, lest he further show the incompetence of his soldiers. The thought of sending one of his Knights in with so little information does not sit well with him, and he waits for more detail.

But no answers are forthcoming; Hux simply gives a tense nod, and without a farewell, moves for the door.

Ren watches him go in silence, head cocked curiously. Something stirs in him again, and once again the word  _concern_ comes to mind. 

He pushes it from his thoughts, and proceeds to his shift on the Command Deck.


	3. Chapter 3

A full day cycle passes, and no word comes.

It is, of course, not particularly unusual for a Knight to lose contact with their fellows when on a mission. It is, however, highly unusual for such to happen at such short a range -- and what is more worrisome than that is the absence that Ren feels keenly in his mind. It does not come all at once, which leads him to believe that no death has occurred. Still, it is unsettling; and he is not the only one that shares in that feeling.

The sentiments are felt, more than heard; there are few words, few concrete thoughts. More of a seemingly chaotic flow of information, feelings, impressions. What prevails most, he is able to parse, is the  _concern._ The other Knights, while having lost members before, have not had to cope with such a loss since Ren himself took up the mantle of their Master. He is, and has been, fiercely protective of his Knights, to the core.

It's this protectiveness that leads him to the General's door, simmering, one wrong word from falling into a full-on fury. He's not asleep; he rarely is. Ren, at times, is forced to wonder if the man ever  _actually_ rests, or if he just dozes occasionally at his desk, mid-sentence in filing a report. The thought is...somewhat more amusing than anticipated, and it helps to quell some of the welling frustration that threatens to boil over.

When Ren speaks, however, his tone is still snappish.

"You withheld information."

" _Pardon?_ _"_

Hux has the nerve to seem  _outraged_ at the accusation, but Ren stands his ground, teeth bared behind the mask. He knows such a look is not nearly so threatening as he'd like, but the impassive helmet's face hides the sins of his too-soft, too young face.

"You. Withheld. Pertinent information. I believe my Knight to have encountered a greater threat than your initial report implied -- "

" _Implied?_ You mean that you rashly  _assumed_. What did you expect? That it would be easy? That my  _downed stormtroopers_ were just dolls to be tossed around passively? They fought with the beast. Some of them died. I told you as much. I withheld  _nothing._ "

There's venom on the General's tongue, and just as much in Ren's when he points at him, finger jabbing into the man's chest. That he touches him at all is evidence enough of the ire building in him; his Knight is in  _danger_ , danger that Ren himself sent them into, and on the word of the man standing before him. 

"I am going personally." 

It's sharp, sudden. He had not even realized that was his intention before now; but he feels it, a tug at his core, saying  _yes,_ that is what he should do. His gut is rarely wrong; he would call it intuition, but he knows better. 

Something flickers in Hux's gaze -- doesn't it? Does Ren merely imagine the shadow that passes over his eyes, the way his eyebrows twitch inward, just for a moment, not even the space of a breath? Is it concern?

Surely not. Ren has proven himself on more than one battlefield -- but then, so have others. The stormtroopers, even, and certainly his missing Knight. That there has been no word for a mission that should have been relatively simple...what singular creature could best one of his Knights? Nothing immediately comes to mind, certainly nothing he has ever encountered personally. But then, it is a wide galaxy...

" -- very well." Hux's voice draws him back; odd, that it always seems able to, no matter how far gone he is, no matter how deep into his own mind he ventures. Surprise must show in the shift of his body, the very slight cock of his head, but Hux just looks impatient. If there was any concern -- Ren is beginning to doubt that, though the implications of his seeing it when none was there are worrisome. -- it is certainly gone now. "You're going to do it anyway, aren't you? With or without my leave?"

There is something almost  _weary_ in the man's tone; does he find Ren so deplorably tiresome? But then, if Hux had gathered more intel, if he had offered more information from the start, this entire fallout could have been avoided, Ren is certain. 

"I am."

Hux  _scowls_ , and immediately steps back. 

"If that is all, then, and you have no  _further_ wild accusations or interruptions -- "

It's clear he doesn't intend for Ren to protest, but the vocoder crackles to life, his own voice coming out low, almost a  _growl_.

"If anything has befallen my Knight, on your head be the consequences, General."

Hux, rather than seeming cowed, instead lifts his chin,  _sneers_ at him. 

"I am not their Master. It is  _your_ responsibility to see to it that your subordinates are adequately equipped for the missions on which you send them. If they were inadequate to the task, and it was on your orders that they went to their death?"

The word rings cold between them:  _death_. They are not dead. Ren would know that. Ren would  _feel_ that. Wouldn't he? And yet, the absence, the icy emptiness where their mind had been --

"...then their blood, Ren, is on  _your_ hands. Not mine."

Ren sees only the General turning away, and then his own distorted reflection in the closed doors.


	4. Chapter 4

Wariness is a hum at the back of his mind, boots crunching through frosted over snow; the frigid, icy path down to the mine has not been retraced since his Knight passed through two day cycles prior, and the snow accumulates quickly here. With all work occurring elsewhere on the base, an eerie hush has fallen over this section of the landscape, and all he can hear is the sound of his harsh breathing, filtered through the vocoder. 

The mouth of the mine is unlit, but with some exploration, he finds the switch that controls the subterranean lighting that has been installed -- for a moment before keying in the percentage, he studies the empty darkness. It stretches on before him, seemingly endless. 

But there is no time to be pensive. The lights flicker, warming to life, leaving the walls and supports awash in a cold, fluorescent glow. Even in all of his layers, it gives him a chill. All the same, he is not so easily daunted as that, and he presses forward. Once past the mouth, the snow disappears, the sound of his steps softening into a quiet echo that comes back to him.

Despite knowing that another ought to be present here, there is a strange sense of solitude; his mind reaches, but finds nothing.

_Nothing?_

There ought to be...something. Even should his Knight be incapable of reaching out, he should still sense them -- or, if it is true that they have passed, then there should be small, subterranean creatures, there should be bugs, there should be  _lichen_. There should be  _life_ , in whatever form it might exist. 

But here, that life is simply...absent. This is not the first time he has experienced as much. Once, while training with Luke Skywalker, they had traipsed, unwitting, into an area of a Temple equipped with technology to nullify Force usage. And too, under his training with Snoke, he had been forced to wear a device with a similar effect to prevent him from cheating during key parts of his physical training. 

It feels... _wrong_. It had then, and it does now, has him on edge and uneasy. His connection to the Force has been strong all his life, sometimes all but unbearable, boiling over like a pot too long left over a fire. This absence, this muffled silence, feels like he has been scooped out, emptied of something essential to himself. 

_What are you, without your magic?_

Hux's voice, the way he had spit the words in an argument one day -- he hates how it stings, even now, to remember. This weakness, this odd trepidation does not suit him. He is more than that. More than Hux thinks of him, and he will not balk in the face of even this. 

He does not need his  _magic_ to proceed. He does not need anything, anything at all, but his own body, the strength he has worked to cultivate for years, the skills that have been developed and nurtured, the sharp reflexes, the keen mind, the resilience -- he needs nothing but himself, and the saber at his side. And even should he lose that, he will grapple with whatever beast lies in wait down here with his own hands.

So the General thinks him weak without the Force, without his  _tricks_ and  _magic?_

Ren steps deeper into the mine, ready to prove him  _wrong._


	5. Chapter 5

Somewhere deep within the mine, something  _moves_. Ren would not know, but for the skittering of a stone, the hollow echo that bounces endlessly between the walls until it finds him. He pauses in his steps, cocks his head, and  _listens_ ; but whatever might have been the origin of the sound, it makes no further noise he can discern, and so, at length, he resumes his steady pace, deeper, deeper. He is not afraid. What is there to fear from an empty tunnel? Devoid of life as it seems to be, he would call it  _eerie_ at most. Unnerving, but not  _frightening._

His boot knocks something loose from the ground, sends it clattering across the floor, and he tenses -- but it's just a blaster, abandoned, covered in dirt. He bends, picks it up, studies it; there's blood spattered onto the thing, and bubbles have formed on the surface, interspersed with deep holes, as if it had been  _boiling_. The corrosion is unnatural; nothing to be found in this mine should have caused such damage. Alongside this observation, he notes dark, dried blood, almost blending in with the dirt -- and the safety, still flicked on. Whatever unfortunate trooper or tech this had belonged to, their fate had been swift. They had not even had the chance to fire.

The blaster is returned to its previous resting place, and Ren presses on. There's some evidence of structural damage, an acidic compound having rendered a number of the supports somewhat unstable -- he makes note of their position in the mine, intending to relay this information to the General at the completion of this mission. But it nags at him;  _what_ could have caused such damage? Just what is he dealing with down here?

And  _where_ is his Knight?

He does not call out; he is not used to needing to. But likewise, he hears no additional movement further in to give him some sense of where his Knight might be, has no way of knowing if they are even still capable of making sound, if they are conscious, if they are  _alive_. And if they are not, he doesn't wish to alert whatever monster was discovered down here to his presence before he has some idea of what he's up against. It's not that he doubts his own skills -- he is quite confident in that respect. He would simply rather be prepared. 

It has nothing to do with that creeping unease, which, like the chill, has settled down to his bones. It's warmer down here than at the planet's surface, but he just can't seem to shake the cold, his many layers doing little to keep it at bay.

Further down, the mine opens up to a junction of sorts, with other tunnels leading away, dimly lit corridors that, from here, all look the same. Ordinarily, he would not pause; very rarely does he ever feel  _lost_ , very rarely does he ever have to pause to consider his direction. Though imperfect, the Force makes for a very handy compass, always leading him further in the direction of his destiny. It had led him here, after all; he remembers the gut-feeling, standing outside of Hux's door, the snap-decision that had brought him to this dreary, subterranean wasteland. But what now? No direction  _feels_ more correct than any of the others, but it feels wrong to assume there is not  _right_ way. No -- it's another side-effect of whatever Force-dampening tech is at work here.

Not that it matters; just as he is contemplating how long it will take him to explore each route, or which looks most promising, he hears it -- the soft rasp of scales over rock. There's a disturbance in the air, something moving, claws clicking. 

From one of the tunnel mouths,  _something_ emerges. He's never seen such a creature, not in reality, nor in any book; but he has heard of them, remembers with horrifying clarity a singular story Luke Skywalker had told him about a reptilian, dog-like beast, specifically bred for one purpose: to hunt and kill Force Users. Acidic expulsions that dripped out with its saliva, capable of sonic attacks that could knock someone off their feet. 

The pieces fall into place immediately. This isn't some creature unearthed, awoken during the mining. This is a voxyn, an off-world entity that never should have existed in this place. This beast was  _brought_ here.

This is a  _trap._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay on this one!! i'll try to get the next chapter out super quick to make up for it!

Harsh lighting casts sharp shadows, and for a moment, both he and the creature are perfectly still; though he is masked, and the creature is mindless, not even designated as a sentient species -- not even a  _species_ at all, just a clone of a crossbreeding experiment -- he feels that their eyes have somehow locked. He does not blink; his eyes begin to burn, but he does not dare break the strange tension, does not dare to look away. 

Its head cocks, its nostrils flaring, and a low rumble begins in its chest, a growl that hums its way through the creature. Its skin ripples with the shift of muscle as it lowers into a crouching position, and Ren finally moves, his stance widening, his saber in hand.

For what feels like an impossibly long length of time, nothing happens -- seconds stretch out to near infinite proportions. Ren is aware only of his own body; he feels nothing from the Force, nothing from the creature in front of him, and yet, despite the dampening of that connection, he knows, instinctively, that this beast knows him to be a Force User. He knows in this moment that he is intended to be  _prey_. His heart sounds loud in his ears, a rapid thrum that he is usually completely unaware of; his muscles are wound tight, too tight, and he forces himself to relax some. He slows his breathing. He shifts the placement of his feet.

And just like that, the thread of tension  _snaps_ as the voxyn lunges; his saber crackles to life, a familiar, near-imperceptible vibration against his palm as the beam arcs through the air. He is fast, but so is the voxyn; it dodges even as he lashes out at it, and its whiplike tail snaps through the air, tries to find something to curl around. It makes for his ankle, and he steps out of the way, watching the appendage skitter across the floor, harmlessly, in the space where he had stood a moment ago. His head turns as he hears its claws scraping across the floor as it whirls in place to face him again, and the humming in its chest intensifies -- not a growl, he realizes, but a  _preparation._

He crouches arms coming up protectively to ward off what he knows is coming, but the force of the blast still knocks him backwards, boots skidding as he's pushed, and then toppled. Ren rolls the moment he hits the ground, though the shockwave has his thoughts a bit muddled; it's less conscious, and more years of training turned muscle memory that forces his body to turn; and a good thing, because he feels the weight that slams down where he should have been, the heat of the body behind him. It smells rank, even through the purifiers in his helmet, the thick musk of it heavy with the scent of  _rot_. It turns his stomach, almost makes him retch, but there's no time to focus on it, he needs to move, needs to --

 _Pain_ , searing and sudden, blooms to life in white-hot lines across his back where the beast's claws have swiped at him, delicately shredding the layers of his cloak and armor as if they were sheer, fine linen, flimsy and useless. There's something wet and hot dripping down his back, and he knows it must be his own blood -- the creature's acid would burn more, of that much he's certain.

Ren drags his unwilling body to its feet, the fresh wounds on his back crying out in protest. It will have to be endured; certainly he has the scars to prove he has endured wounds during battle before. He turns, retrieving his saber from where it had rolled, sparking, from his grasp, and falls back into a defensive stance -- but the creature has the advantage. It springs at him, and this time their bodies connect, tumbling to floor once more. It digs roughly into the wounds on his back, and he cries out; but those claws aren't idle. Pain flickers into life at his chest, one piercing his shoulder, another his pectoral; more alarmingly, one curls, and there's agony in his side, fresh and intense and nearly overwhelming. 

Hot breath pours over him -- and so does saliva, in thick strings and stray drops. He hears it hit his mask, hears it sizzle as it damages the protective covering, tries to make its way through. Corroding, just as it had done to the blaster.

His robes do not fair nearly so well. 

The singed fabric falls to ruin under the acid, burning clear through to skin almost before he can think; more pain is almost lost in the waves of it that are already pulsing through him, but it still makes itself known, bursting into life like new stars, searing and sudden. 

Teeth, huge, curved fangs, drip before his eyes, and he finds his own teeth bared in an animalistic show of fear, of  _rage._ Without the Force, he has nothing, he has  _nothing_ \--

_What are you, without your magic?_

The words come again, just a memory. Why Hux's voice? Why his sneering disdain, why  _now?_ Anger boils up; he will not allow Hux's jeers be the last thing he thinks of before death. His hand curls around his saber, and he brings it up, just as the beast's teeth come down. They crack into his helmet, just as red cleaves through, severing the head, the open mouth still locked around his mask. 

It crumples, all dead weight against him; the acid oozes, and he knows he need to work to pry the mouth from his head, needs to stand -- but his body feels heavy, impossibly so. Darkness flickers at the edge of his vision; the claw that had pierced his abdomen has shifted, curling deeper into his guts in its death throes.

Though his consciousness threatens to leave him, he does let himself lie idle. Instead, his hands move, disengaging the saber and pushing, trying to roll the great beast off of himself. The claws dislodge from his body, and he gives a weak cry.

He finds his knees. He finds the jaws of the creature, and pries them open, drops the head to the floor. He finds his feet.

Which path he takes, he does not know -- only that, at length, there is snow, cold in comparison to the heat still pouring from his back, from his side, from the speckled starfield of acid burns oozing at his shoulders.

He takes six steps outside of the mine, stumbles, and collapses into the snow.


	7. Chapter 7

For some time, there is nothing; a drifting darkness in which he is not truly awake, but feels as if he must be conscious. It is a darkness that seems to bleed light, seeping out at every cracked seam, spilling into rivers, into falls, into inky depths. He does not fully understand how it is possible to know both dark and light at once -- not in a way that suggests a war, not in the way he has best known the duality: sleepless nights and hands clawing at sheets in the throes of a nightmare, voices constantly saying  _you're too much, you're too much, you're too much_ and  _you're not enough, you're not enough, you're not enough._

How can something, anything embody two concepts he has always known to be in opposition, and not simply rip itself apart, as he's been doing for his entire life? It is darklightdarklight and overwhelming and beautiful, and he wants to stay here forever, and he feels like he'll go mad if he stays here another second. 

It is beautiful and it is terrible and he feels like he's screaming, but there is no sound -- just  _something_ , surrounding him, swallowing him whole, eclipsing him, setting him ablaze.

When he wakes, he is all ragged edges; he is but a delirious part of a much larger whole, ripped free, torn from something infinitely larger than himself. Sensation comes slowly -- cool sheets beneath him, cool sweat on his skin, and  _pain_. That, at least, is solid, and real, and  _his_ , his alone, not to be shared. He feels cold.

Next, there is sound. The faint hum of a machine, the distant beep of a monitor, and -- voices, loud, louder than they should be, and approaching fast.

" -- did this happen?"

Anger. Sharp impatience. He'd know that demanding tone anywhere. It's Hux, and he's  _livid_ if his tone is anything to go bye. What about? And can't he keep it down? Ren is exhausted, and his head is pounding in the same way it does when Snoke's been shouting his displeasure directly into it.

"The reports were unclear, sir. They found him lying out there -- "

"How long?"

"No lasting damage due to cold, sir, but otherwise, I cannot provide an accurate estimate."

"No lasting damage. You're certain?"

There's a sharp note of warning; Ren  _feels_ it as much as hears it -- and relief washes through him at that finding. He can  _feel_ again, reconnected to the Force, like a missing limb, returned. The echoes of Hux's anger wash over him, and for the moment, he allows himself to revel in it, eyes still closed.

 _Cold._ Were they -- talking about him? The realization dawns slowly, his brow creasing some. He doesn't understand Hux's anger at the medic, if that's the case -- he'd thought the man would storm in here, shake him awake.

Is Hux...concerned?

What had the report said? That they'd found him crumpled in the snow, pouring blood and staining the white around him? That he'd been collapsed, unresponsive, mangled?

And what even is the damage? He remembers acid dripping, he remember the burn of it on his skin, he remembers claws piercing him -- which begs the question, why has he not been thrown into a bacta tank? Why is he in a bed? How long as he been out?

Vision comes slowly, all edges blurred as he finally lifts his lashes enough to peer out at the world. In the sea of white and black and shining chrome, Hux's hair stands out like a beacon, drawing his attention. His eyes fix there as the world works to right itself, clarity coming in degrees, details clearing up. But still, his eyes remain on Hux. 

After a moment, as if sensing eyes upon him, Hux's head turns, and their eyes lock.

Something passes over Hux's face, something that, even through the Force, Ren cannot parse. Why is that? Why is the man so quiet, why is his mind an impassible wall, a locked door through which no sound carries? Nothing of the deeper machinations every rise to the surface -- static, white noise, surface thoughts of numbers, of meaningless data, circle endlessly. He knows Hux has been trained to resist having his mind tampered with -- but he thinks it must be the strength of his will that makes such training as effective as it is. After all, ostensibly speaking, most of the officers had undergone similar training, and yet their minds give way as easily as a blaster bolt through flimsy. 

That he finds this strange silence  _comforting_ does not require deeper thought; after all, on a ship crowded with minds all shouting, vying for attention, is it so surprising he might find it pleasant to be near a mind that is quiet, reserved? One he does not have to fight against in order to simply have the company of his own thoughts, alone?

Hux's steps seem slower than usual, and he makes it very clear he is no longer interested in speaking with the medic, who takes this as their cue to leave. Hux approaches him as one might a wounded animal, head cocked, cautious, but his face is unreadable. Ren feels -- foggy, still.  _Sedatives_ , his mind provides; perhaps that is why Hux moves towards him in such a way, unsure.

Ren doesn't know if he's ever seen the man look anything short of disgustingly, arrogantly certain of himself. ( In truth, Ren has always envied that level of self-assurance. He's never had as much, himself. ) 

Hux takes the seat next to the bed. ( Has Ren ever seen him sit before? He cannot recall. Even at the meetings, he often takes to standing. )

"Ren."

A single word, quieter than Ren is used to hearing; his brows crease some, but he just nods, doesn't trust his too-thick tongue in his mouth to not make a fool of him should he try to speak. 

"Are you well?"

What a ridiculous question; and yet, the monitor of his heart responds, a rapid two-beat succession that Hux does not seem to notice. How does he not? It feels painfully loud in the hush of the room.

"Well enough to provide a report?"

Ren wants to laugh; of  _course_ Hux desires a report from him. The laughter doesn't come, though; instead, a harsh series of coughs do, and his chest feels too small, his lungs expanding, but he still feels as if he is not getting enough air. Punctured lung, perhaps, or broken rib, or both. The voxyn had done quite some damage on him.

Hux's brows come together just slightly, and he's shaking his head, standing.

"No. Not now. Later, then. You'll be going in the tank, soon. We may speak after."

A pause, his chin tipping up. 

"Don't give the medical staff a hard time, or I'll inform them you are nonessential staff."

Hux turns, and makes his way towards the door to his room. 

Oddly enough, Ren wants him to stay. He wants to laugh, again -- but only more coughs come, the sound of them following Hux out of the room. 


	8. Chapter 8

He dreams of a garden.

In another life, a boy had been born on the edge of the Silver Sea, and there had always been salt in the air; in another life, a mother had walked with her son in her arms through the lush colors, a semi-private getaway in the middle of a bustling city. He had been but a babe, then, too young to remember the flowered walkways and arches, the winding stone paths, the way the wind whispered through petals and leaves and soft grasses. 

Before that mother, there had been  _her_ mother, another woman, another garden. Royal courtyards bedecked with flowers, both those native to Naboo, and ones brought from afar. She had been beautiful, and kind, and sad, and Ben Solo had never known her. Her name, spoken reverently within the Senate, had never stirred him -- not until the disgrace that had linked Leia Organa to her. Then -- then her name had begun to mean so much more. 

Had she not died so terribly young, might he have known her? Might that have changed the course of his life? There is no knowing. The disease that had taken her had been brutal, had been merciless, had been swift, and horrific.  _Genetic_ , they said.  _Inevitable_ , they said.  _Tragic,_ they said. What could be more cruel than this? This disease that was born of love, that bloomed in the lungs, and choked the life out of those who were not loved in return? 

But to die for love; Ben had always thought there was some kind of beauty in that, even as his parents had, perhaps unconsciously, slowly isolated him. That was the way of it, wasn't it? The only way to protect him was to prevent him falling in love. His mother, already in love and loved in return, had not needed to worry. But her son?

Ben Solo had been a ticking time bomb, in more ways than one, before he ever even drew his wailing first breath. 

In a way, they had been successful; the slow and methodical isolation, sending him away, the teachings that warned him away from attachments, it all amounted to one thing.

He had never fallen for anyone.

And then Ben Solo, as he had been, had died, and not for love. He had not been sent off like his grandmother, surrounded by the very thing that had killed her. Instead, he had risen from the ashes of his old life anew. 

There was no room in the building of a galactic empire for sentiment; that much, he had been told over, and over again, warned about it in the same way he had been warned that attachments would make him weak, make him susceptible to the call to the dark. But having none had not saved him from that, either.

Kylo Ren has no interest in love, but the burned forest cannot designate what form its new growth will take in the coming years.

He dreams of a garden.

In it, he stands alone, bare fingers brushing the bright petals of a flower whose name he does not know. In it, there are no voices screaming inside of his head. There is no light, and there is no dark, and there is nothing but the quiet, and himself -- and a hand at his elbow, at his shoulder, light, cautious. He should be alarmed. He is not. 

Who could touch him that would not cause him to flinch away? Who would dare?

He turns, just slightly. Amid the bright colors of the flowers, the dark uniform cuts a stark contrast; but the red hair does not seem so out of place here as it does in the nearly sterile halls and offices of the  _Finalizer,_ he finds. 

This is a dream; only a dream. That is the only reason Hux would touch him. That is the only reason Ren would allow him to. 

Hux reaches out, delicately plucking the flower Ren had been inspecting from the bush. His lips move, but there is no sound; everything seems muted, slow. It must be something scathing. Isn't it always?

Between gloved forefinger and thumb, the petals darken, bruise, and are pressed into nothing, falling, ruined to the ground as each one is plucked. Ren watches in morbid fascination as each petal is pulled free, and at length, his eyes slide to Hux's mouth once more. It's still moving, shaping words -- words that, though he cannot hear, he finds he can recognize all the same.

_I love you. I love you not. I love you. I love you not._

A childish game of picked petals and crushed hopes. He had been caught playing it only once, and scolded to tears for things he had not, at the time, understood. 

Hux rolls his fingers, sliding the sad remainders of the flower, last clinging petals still attached, into his palm. How many are left? He hadn't had time to count, he hadn't seen -- and why should it matter? It's a child's game, not a factual way of predicting anything, and...and why does he care about the outcome, regardless? 

Ren has no interest in love, and yet, when Hux's fingers curl around the flower to crush both it and the remaining petals, his eyes move to Hux's mouth, as if to catch the final say. Which is it?  _Which is it?_

Hux's lips shape no words at all; they simply curve into a smile, and Ren --

Ren cannot breathe.


End file.
